Teddy and Darrel – Wild Thing b/w Strangers in the Night (Mira, 1966)

It’d be terribly remiss of me to cop like the Sneaky Pinks emerged fresh from the void without any discernable spiritual antecedents. Their seams show plenty and the more obvious influences are easy enough to roll call, but an obscure duo left just as resonant an impact: Teddy and Darrel.

Teddy and Darrel (allegedly the noms de guerre of Theodore Charach and Mike Curb) were responsible for cutting These Are The Hits You Silly Savage!! for the Mira label in 1966. Twelve contemporary hits were run through the swisher and packaged for sale to a potentially teeming hoard of fagulous music lovers. Despite their overly optimistic expectations, you certainly can’t knock ‘em for a prescient appreciation of their current audience.

Those lavender lads also elected to release two cuts as a 45. While I would’ve personally selected I’m Hungry or These Boots are Made For Walking as the b-side, the flip is the clear winner. Wild Thing is a sublime reworking of the Troggs chestnut—replete with a fuzz workout (Davie Allan?) and breathy cooing.




Wild Thing / Strangers in the Night


Sneaky Pinks - I Can't Wait + 2 EP (Rubber Vomit, 2005)

Choosing a record for my first post was a fairly difficult decision: an unknown, a familiar favorite or a proven landmark? Ultimately, I pussed out and settled on an entry with which I’d had an early and personal involvement.

I’d originally volunteered to put out this single after hearing it via mp3—How could I resist its gooey mélange of Hubble Bubble / Spits / Radio X-inspired retardation? Even the cringe-inducing phrasing found in Life Stupid, I Stupid was so beguilingly executed that hearing it would undoubtedly make Anthony Kiedis’ sculpted bits twitter in delight. A series of increasingly lame excuses and dire financial circumstances ensured my banishment prior to its eventual release, however. Everything's OK now though cuz those two transplanted Illinois knuckleheads came through in the clutch and ended up delivering a prime cut in the process.

I’ll forgo any further hyping of this record, as it’s already evoked plenty of internet chatter. This synesthetic bit of gimcrackery sews it up most effectively, anyway:

"the sneaky pinks’ sound is like making love for the first time while listening to g.g. allin's always was, is and always shall be—the silence between songs punctuated solely by the occasional, errant queef."


Pressing Details:

Rejected Test Press: 7 / Test Press: 7
First Press: 300 / Texas Tour Edition: 20
Second Press: 300


I Can't Wait
Kill Kill Kill / Life Stupid, I Stupid / We're the Sneaky Pinks


So what the hell is this all about, anyway? I really wish I had a more compelling answer.

What you’re stuck with, however, is the closest approximation to a salient conclusion that I can proffer up: fifteen years ago I was sold a bill of goods—an insidious fraud predicated on the notion that somehow, through some wholly imagined qualifier, collecting was cool. Just to clarify: I’m not referring to casual collecting and/or blind amassment (neither of which has ever interested me much)—I’m talking equal parts otaku / hikikomori, “don’t mind me as I rifle through your garbage at 2 a.m.”-type bullshit. Collecting would gradually assume the role of a crass surrogate for the ‘life experience’ and ‘personal growth’ I’d prudently opt to ignore.

The most profound inculcators of this pathology were twofold: Eightball and Buzzkill. At age 16, these two periodicals had the power to reduce my malleable, young brain into a twitching heap of mush. Celebrated grotesqueries and hyperbolic glorifications of musical anti-art were too easily digestible and intoxicating—I never stood a chance.

Lo this longtime later, I’m feeling so existential, basking in ennui and pondering the unfathomable. Friendships have faded, relationships have dwindled into acrimonious nubs and somehow I duped myself into believing that everything would be ok as long as I eventually got that VP’s EP. Well, that day has come (thanks, RR!) and gone and I don’t necessarily feel all the better for it.

It should be pretty obvious by now that I’m a sad motherfucker. I’d like to pretend that this blog is an exorcism of accumulated detritus and effluvium, but the title alone, an obvious misnomer, betrays its true purpose: to feed my perverse amusement. If just one person cites some esoteric minutia as having been gleaned from Cool Dude Quarterly it’ll all be worth it.

99% less pathos: I’d like to thank all of the usual suspects for their contributions over the years. Special thanks to my pal, DOE, for technical support + sympathy.